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Mice Christmas

We’ve been having a very mice Christmas. They appear to have made their home in the kitchen, as well as upstairs in one of the bedrooms. The wrapping paper my mother gave me for wrapping Santa’s presents was eaten, as were some other things. Apparently there’s a ghost-mouse eating mince pies in the hallway. “You can never see him.”
The parents aren’t happy at all about this and they want to get rid of them. My dad’s been swearing at the mouse that got into the kitchen after eating a hole in the plasterboard in the ceiling. “That shagging mouse!”
He swears at it despite acknowledging that he would have done the same thing if he were a mouse.
They’ve been leaving poison out for them, which I find very unchristmassy. The poor mice are obviously just trying to get in out of the rain and cold. Refugees welcome, I say.
We’re leaving for Berlin in the morning. I’ll make sure to leave some cheese out in the yard before we go. Wexford cheddar, only the best.

Spudnik Ó Fathaigh has called Berlin home since St. Patrick’s Day 2008, when he arrived doe-eyed and thirsty after a ferry from Ireland and long drive through France. The doe-eyes have since been surpassed by those of his son, as doe-eyed as they come, but the thirst is yet to be cured.
Three stolen bikes, innumerable bike-theft attempts, eight mobile phones and countless (and counting) Sternis later, der Irische Berliner – as he’s also known – spends his time poking his nose where noses aren't welcome and bestowing the benefits of his foul language and gutter speak on the locals.
Of course, he’s a local now too. When not working on amusing alliteration combinations or ignoring Betreten Verboten signs, Spudnik rants, rages and reports to the best of his frightening ability.